A Dedicated Man (11 page)

Banks noted that in about twenty seconds Sally’s opinion had undergone a radical reversal. At first she had been coquettish, flirtatious, but now she seemed disdainful, almost sorry for
him, and much more brusque and businesslike in her manner. Again, he could hardly keep from smiling.

‘Did you know Harold Steadman?’

‘Is that who . . . the man?’

‘Yes. Did you know him?’

‘Yes, a bit. He often came to the school to give lectures on local history or geology. Boring stuff mostly about old ruins. And he took us on field trips sometimes to Fortford, or even as
far as Malham or Keld.’

‘So the pupils knew him quite well?’

‘As well as you can know a teacher.’ Sally thought for a moment. ‘But he wasn’t really like a teacher. I mean, I know it was boring and all that, but he liked it. He was
enthusiastic. And he even took us to his home for hot dogs and pop after some of the trips.’

‘Us?’

‘Yes, the pupils who lived in Helmthorpe or Gratly. There were about seven of us usually. His wife made us all some food and we just sat and talked about where we’d been and what
we’d found. He was a very nice man.’

‘What about his wife, did you know her?’

‘Not really. She didn’t stick around with us. She always had something else to do. I think she was just shy. But Mr Steadman wasn’t. He’d talk to anybody.’

‘Was that the only time you saw him? At school, on trips?’

Sally’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Well, apart from in the street or in shops, yes. Look, if you mean was he a dirty old man, the answer’s no.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Banks said. But he was glad that she had reacted as if it was.

He made her go through the story again while he took down all the particulars. She gave the information unwillingly this time, as if all she wanted was to get out of the place. When she finally
left, Banks slouched back in his chair and grinned to think that all his appeal, all his glamour, had been lost in his move from London to Eastvale. Outside in the market square the clock chimed
four.

On Tuesday
morning, having sent Sergeant Hatchley to Helmthorpe to check on Weaver’s progress, search Harold Steadman’s study and bring in Teddy Hackett for
questioning, Banks set off for York to visit Michael Ramsden again.

He drove into the ancient Roman city at about eleven o’clock through suburbs of red-brick boxes. After getting lost in the one-way system for half an hour, he found a parking space by the
River Ouse and crossed the bridge to Fisher & Faulkner Ltd, a squat ugly brick building by the waterside. The pavements were busy with tourists and businessmen, and the huge Minster seemed to
dominate the city; its light stone glowed in the morning sun.

A smart male receptionist pointed him in the right direction, and on the third floor one of Ramsden’s assistants called through to the boss.

Ramsden’s office looked out over the river, down which a small tour boat was wending its way. The top deck was bright with people in summer holiday clothes, and camera lenses flashed in
the sun. The boat left a long V of ripples, which rocked the rowing boats in its wake.

The office itself was small and cluttered; beside the desk and filing cabinets stood untidy piles of manuscripts, some stacked on the floor, and two bookcases displaying a set of Fisher &
Faulkner’s titles. Even in a dark business suit, Ramsden still looked as if his clothes were too big for him; he had the distracted air of a professor of nuclear physics about to explain
atomic fission to a layman while simultaneously working out complex formulae in his mind. He brushed back an invisible forelock and asked Banks to sit down.

‘You were a close friend of Harold Steadman’s,’ Banks began. ‘Could you tell me a little about him? His background, how you met, that kind of thing.’

Ramsden leaned back in his swivel chair and crossed his long legs. ‘You know,’ he said, looking sideways towards the window, ‘I was always just a little bit in awe of Harry.
Not just because he was nearly fifteen years my senior – that never really mattered – but because I don’t think we ever really got over the student-professor relationship. When we
met, he was a lecturer at Leeds and I was just about to begin my studies in London, so we weren’t even at the same university. We weren’t in the same field, either. But these ideas get
fixed in one’s mind nonetheless. I was eighteen and Harry was nearly thirty-three. He was a very intelligent, very dedicated man – an exact role model for someone like me at that
time.

‘Anyway, although I was, as I said, just about to go to university in London, I always came home at Christmas and in summer. I’d help around the house, do odd jobs, make bacon and
eggs for the guests. And I loved being at home, being in the Yorkshire countryside. It was best when Harry and Emma came to stay for their annual holidays. I’d walk for hours, sometimes
alone, sometimes with Harold or Penny.’

‘Penny?’ Banks cut in. ‘Would that be Penny Cartwright?’

‘Yes, that’s right. We were very close until I went off to London.’

‘Go on.’

‘We used to go out together, in a casual sort of way. It was all very innocent. She was sixteen and we’d known each other nearly all our lives. She’d even stayed with us for a
while after her mother died.’

‘How old was she then?’

‘Oh, about ten or eleven. It was tragic, really. Mrs Cartwright drowned in a spring flood. Terrible. Penny’s father had a nervous breakdown, so she stayed with us while he recovered.
It seemed only natural. Later, when . . . well, you know, we were a bit older . . . Anyway, Harold was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the area. He took to Swainsdale immediately, and
pretty soon he was teaching me more than I’d learned living there all my life. He was like that. I was impressed, of course, but as I was about to study English at university I was
insufferably literary – always quoting Wordsworth and the like. I suppose you know he bought the house when my mother couldn’t afford to keep it on?’

Banks nodded.

‘Yes,’ Ramsden went on, ‘they came every year, Harry and Emma, and when father died they were in a position to help us out a great deal. It was good for Harry, too. His work at
the university was too abstract, too theoretical. He published a book called
The Principles of Industrial Archaeology
, but what he really wanted was the opportunity to put those principles
into practice. University life didn’t give him time enough to do that. He fully intended to teach again, you know. But first he wanted to do some real pioneering work. When he inherited the
money, all that became possible.

‘When I graduated, I went to work for Fisher and Faulkner in London first. Then they opened the northern branch and offered me this job. I missed the north and I’d always hoped to be
able to make a living up here some day. We published Harold’s second book and he and I developed a good working relationship. The firm specializes in academic books, as you can see.’ He
pointed towards the crowded bookshelves, and most of the titles Banks could make out had
principles
or
a study of
in them. ‘We do mostly literary criticism and local
history,’ Ramsden went on. ‘Next Harry edited a book of local essays, and since that we’ve been working on an exhaustive industrial history of the dale from pre-Roman times to the
present. Harry published occasional essays in scholarly journals, but this was to be his major work. Everybody was looking forward to it tremendously.’

‘What exactly is industrial archaeology?’ Banks asked. ‘I’ve heard the term quite often lately, but I’ve only got a vague idea what it means.’

‘Your vague idea is probably as clear as anyone else’s,’ Ramsden replied. ‘As yet, it’s still an embryonic discipline. Basically, the term was first used to
describe the study of the machinery and methods of the Industrial Revolution, but it’s been expanded a great deal to include other periods – Roman lead mines, for example. I suppose you
could say it’s the study of industrial artefacts and processes, but then you could argue for a month about how to define “industrial”. To complicate matters even further,
it’s very hard to draw the line between the subject as a hobby and as an academic discipline. For instance, if someone happens to be interested in the history of steam trains, he can still
make a contribution to the field, even though he actually works nine to five in a bank most days.’

‘I see,’ Banks said. ‘So it’s a kind of hybrid area, an open field?’

‘That’s about it. Nobody’s yet come up with a final definition, which is partly why it’s so exciting.’

‘You don’t think Mr Steadman’s death could be in any way linked to his work, do you?’

Ramsden shook his head slowly. ‘I can’t see it, no. Of course, there are feuds and races just like in any other discipline, but I can’t see any of it going that far.’

‘Did he have rivals?’

‘Professionally, yes. The universities are full of them.’

‘Could he have uncovered something that someone might wish to keep quiet?’

Ramsden thought for a moment, his sharp chin resting in his bony hand. ‘You mean the unsavoury past of a prominent family, that kind of thing?’

‘Anything.’

‘It’s an interesting theory. I can’t say for certain one way or the other. If he had discovered something, he didn’t tell me. It’s possible, I suppose. But
we’re a long way from the Industrial Revolution. You’d have to dig back a very long way if you want to find a descendant of someone who made his fortune by exploiting child labour, for
example, which wasn’t entirely uncommon back then. I don’t think there are many direct descendants of the Romans around who still have anything to hide.’

Banks smiled. ‘Probably not. What about enemies, academic or otherwise?’

‘Harry? Good Lord, I shouldn’t think so. He wasn’t the kind to make enemies.’

Again, Banks refrained from stating the obvious. ‘Do you know anything about this business with Teddy Hackett?’ he asked.

Ramsden glanced sharply at him. ‘You don’t miss much, do you?’ he said. ‘Yes, I know about it, for what it’s worth. There’s a field in Helmthorpe over the
river near the cricket pitch – it’s called Crabtree’s Field because it used to belong to a farmer named Crabtree. He’s long dead now, though. There’s a small bridge
which connects the field with the campsite on the other side, and Hackett wants to provide more “facilities” for the campers – by which he no doubt means junk food and video
games. You must have noticed the increasing Americanization of the English countryside, Chief Inspector. McDonald’s seems to be springing up everywhere now, even in places as small as
Helmthorpe. Harold had good reason to suppose – and I’ve heard his evidence – that there was once a Roman camp there. It could be a very important discovery. He was trying to
persuade the local authorities to protect it for excavations. Naturally, that caused a bit of friction between Harry and Teddy Hackett. But they remained friends. I don’t think it was a
serious quarrel.’

‘Not serious enough to lead to murder?’

‘Not in my opinion, no.’ Ramsden turned sideways again and looked out over the river at the shining Minster towers. ‘They were quite close friends, though God knows why, seeing
as their views on just about everything were always diametrically opposed. Harry enjoyed a good argument for its own sake – that was the academic in him – and Hackett is at least a
fairly intelligent, if not a very tasteful, adversary. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Harry’s friends in the village how serious the quarrel was. I didn’t get over there
often enough. I suppose you’ve met the good doctor and the resident scribbler?’

Banks nodded. ‘Do you know them?’

‘A little. Not very well, though. As I said, I don’t get to Helmthorpe as often as I’d like. Doc Barnes has been around as long as I can remember, of course. And I’ve had
one or two beery evenings in the Bridge. Naturally there was quite a bit of excitement when Jack Barker moved to Gratly three or four years back, but it soon settled down when he proved to be much
like everyone else.’

‘Where did he come from? What made him choose Gratly?’

‘Haven’t a clue, I’m afraid. I have a vague notion he’s from somewhere in Cheshire, but I couldn’t swear to it. You’ll have to ask him.’

‘Did he know Mr Steadman before he moved to Gratly?’

‘Not as far as I know. Harry never mentioned him.’

‘Does your company publish his books?’

‘Lord, no.’ Ramsden made curious snuffling noises through his nose, and Banks took the sound for laughter. ‘I told you what we specialize in. I believe Barker writes paperback
originals.’

‘Did Mr Steadman ever say anything about Dr Barnes or Jack Barker?’

‘He said a number of things, yes. What do you have in mind?’

‘Anything odd. Did he ever tell you anything about them that you thought they might not want to be common knowledge?’

‘Are you trying to suggest that Harry was a blackmailer?’

‘Not at all. But if he did know something, they weren’t to know what he’d do with the knowledge, were they? You say he was a decent upright man – fair enough. If he knew
of anything illegal or immoral anyone was involved in, what do you think he would have done?’

‘I see what you mean.’ Ramsden tapped a yellow pencil on his bottom teeth. ‘He’d have done the right thing, of course. Gone to the authorities. But I still can’t
help you. He never indicated to me that either Barker or Barnes had ever been involved in anything untoward.’

‘What about Penny Cartwright?’

‘What about her? Harry certainly never spoke ill of Penny.’

‘What about your relationship with her?’

Ramsden paused. ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business.’

‘Up to you,’ Banks said.

‘It was all a long time ago. There was certainly nothing odd about it. I don’t see how knowing can possibly help you.’

Banks kept silent.

‘Oh, what the hell, then,’ Ramsden said. ‘Why not? I told you – we were good friends, then we drifted apart. We were both in London at roughly the same time, but we moved
in very different circles. She was a singer, so she hung around with musicians. She was always a bit of a rebel, too. You know, had to be different, embraced all the causes. She made a couple of
records and even toured in Europe and America, I believe. It was traditional folk music they played – at first, anyway – but they jazzed it up with electronic instruments. Then she got
tired of life in the fast lane and came home. Her father forgave her and she settled into her cottage. Apart from the old man getting a bit overprotective now and again, she more or less gets on
with her own life. Still sings a bit around the local pubs, too.’